


In Thirty Repetitions

by DevBasaa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevBasaa/pseuds/DevBasaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius has little more than his thoughts to comfort or distress him in Azkaban</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Thirty Repetitions

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to LJ for the first time June 2004 (archiving to AO3)

He hadn't known that a location--a _place_ \--could personify desolation. He never knew that dreariness and depression could be worn like a cloak, heavy on the shoulders, bearing him to the ground, thick, wooly, and pitch black like his father's dress cloak. It even smelled like that cloak here: musty, dank and tangy as if laden with dark herbal potions and draughts not to be mentioned between polite witches and wizards.

Sirius Black never knew such a place could exist. Until Azkaban.

Sirius shifted in his spot, leaning against the chill brick cell wall. He drew one leg up close to his body and laid his arm over his knee. He didn't hold the position long, soon stretching his leg out before him and drawing the other one up. He found it difficult to be still and comfortable in his own body, too rarely out of his dog form. His limbs seemed overly long and awkward; his skin felt thin and boney without the benefit of fur or padding from fat. His body was wasting away, he knew--malnourished, deprived of sunlight, his soul suffering. Sirius shifted again; his back ached.

He would return to Padfoot soon--not the least of which because it only took the Dementors about thirty slow repetitions of "Medieval witch Weird Wendelin wanted the wily tickle of a Flame Freezing Charm so she willed herself burned at the stake no less than forty-seven times" before they passed his cell again, meticulous in their rounds. Sirius wasn't sure how long thirty repeats of that line (one of Peter's old memorized reminders, devised during a 4am study session for a History of Magic final) represented, but in only six months, Sirius could already feel it in his bones when the phrase hit its twenty-ninth saying. He didn't know when he stopped having to actually say the words to note the passage of time.

The reprieve into himself--those moments when he could look at a human hand, flex it, know it to be his own--were moments met with bittersweet thoughts. Memories flooded him, as if each line of his hand held a reminder, as if the knobbiness of his knees had tales to tell, both good and bad.

Sirius looked at his nails, cracked and split and sickly yellow. It seemed absurd to him now, but he'd once kept them so perfectly trimmed, carefully cleaned, for a boy. Such vanity. It only reminded him of his arrogance, the belief in his own immortality and indestructibility. He wondered what his youthful self would make of the man he was today--this crumbled man, betrayed and framed by friendship, guilty by ill-placed trust, his eyes stinging from un-shed tears. Would that boy he once knew so easily laugh, so simply dismiss a hundred things if he knew that he too could be broken?

Would he even believe his own eyes?

Sirius scoffed. Probably not.

Along the side of his palm, he had a thin, light pink scar, courtesy of his mother. Angry at his Hogwarts alliances and in a fit of indignation, she'd heaved a picture frame at him. The frame struck the wall next to his head; the glass had shattered. Shielding his face, he'd walked away with only that cut on his hand. Later, he would laugh with James, describing the horrified expression of the wizard in the picture, flying through the air towards him, but only Remus knew how scared he'd been at that moment, unsure if he'd be able to walk away from the encounter at all.

In their different ways, James and Remus and even Peter--until the end--had been there for him. Therefore, he thought of them most of all. Granted, thoughts of Peter generally rallied in him such depth of betrayal and craving for revenge that, sometimes, it was the only thing keeping him from withering away until he was nothing more than a dark stain on his cell floor, crushed by the oppressive, killing desolation.

However, when he could let go of his hatred enough, Sirius thought of James and his mischievous grin, of the way James' glasses rarely sat straight on his face. He remembered the way James' eyes seemed to sparkle when Lily was near; he recalled how his voice had cracked with emotion when he'd told Sirius about Harry's birth.

That memory always made Sirius smile, even in spite of Azkaban.

The uneasiness in his gut spiked and Sirius knew he hadn't much time left before he'd be seeing his caged world through canine eyes again, his thoughts reduced to the simplicity of a dog's. Sirius spread his fingers and brought them together again. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel another hand pressed to his, fingers threaded through his own.

Perhaps not surprising, these memories were the most bittersweet.

Sirius didn't like to dwell too long on thoughts of Remus, they only pained him. His memories were generally beautiful and joyful and it felt like he sullied them to recall such perfect times in such horrific surroundings. He didn't want to think of those final months of freedom and Peter's subtle manipulations that spoiled it all. He didn't want to think of lying in bed, holding Remus close and yet doubting him all the same.

He would never doubt Remus again. Even if he never left this horrible place, he would die believing in Remus, hoping he had built himself a life from the rubble Voldemort made--that Peter made. If Peter had laid seeds of doubt in Siruis' mind about Remus, then Sirius knew Peter had done the same for Remus. Remus would have little else to believe but what Peter had devised: _Sirius had betrayed them all_. And maybe he had. He'd placed his trust with and convinced James and Lily to trust the wrong person.

If only he'd believed in Remus sooner. If only he'd paid more attention to what his lover's eyes told him, not just his body.

Sirius choked back a sob; he tightened his hand into a fist, his jagged nails cut into his palm. He welcomed the pain, penance for all the poor choices which had led him here. How he suffered for his arrogance. How he longed for times so wonderful that he began to doubt the accuracy of his mind. Had he been friend enough? Had he loved Remus as much as he thought he did? Did it matter anymore?

His thoughts so desperate and filled with despair, Sirius figured he probably didn't need Padfoot's form to evade the Dementors--he could banish happy thoughts all on his own. But no, he couldn't give up like that, not so easily. Sirius leaned his head back against the brick. His hair sticking to the rough texture, he felt the pull of individual strands. He closed his eyes and remembered Remus. He thought of how their hands felt twined together; he recalled how their skin tones differed, their bodies pressed so close. His heart swelled and he smiled; he remembered how much he loved him--how much he would always love him, no matter what became of him here in Azkaban.

If there was true justice, someday Sirius would get the chance to tell Remus himself. If he languished here forever, he hoped that at least Remus might remember and believe in the past, if he could believe nothing else. Let Remus remember and smile, bittersweet perhaps, of Marauder days, of stolen moments in empty classrooms, of privately made pledges. Let him know, once, he was loved. So very loved.

A forbidden smile on his lips, Sirius concentrated and within moments, he was Padfoot again, a dog that was oddly content for his surroundings, his head resting against his paws, his tail wagging back and forth.

The Dementors passed by the cell. They dismissed the unfamiliar, base emotions coming from beyond those bars; they barely paused. In thirty repetitions of "Medieval witch Weird Wendelin wanted the wily tickle of a Flame Freezing Charm so she willed herself burned at the stake no less than forty-seven times" they would be back.

Padfoot would feel it in his bones too.

 

~~end


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